Other Men Aren't Like This One
by spittingllama7856
Summary: 1927, Harry is a bootlegger. He has partial ownership over Hogsmeade, a speakeasy run by Fred and George Weasley. One of the performers, Devon Malfoy, honestly deserves a raise after the performance she put on. That's why Harry went to her changing room, of course. 1920s AU, pre-slash, men in drag.


_House: Hufflepuff_

 _Position: Prefect 1_

 _Category: Themed (Deception)_

 _Prompt: [Colour] Teal_

 _Word count: 2463_

 _Notes: 1920s AU; bootleggers; flappers; speakeasies; centered around the Flaming Youth; this fic takes place in 1927._

 _A/N: Do I care that_ Why Don't You Do Right _was first sung in the 60s, not the 20s? No. No I do not. Do I regret writing this? Only slightly. I've been sitting on this plot for months, and I just couldn't help myself._

 _Warnings: men in drag; slash; alcohol; very vague sexual implications; profanity; pre-slash pairing_

 _Disclaimer: I did not write the lyrics to_ Why Don't You Do Right _, the song sung in this fic. I am not JK Rowling either, and I didn't write Harry Potter_.

Cigar smoke polluted the air, a thick cloud of gray that made Harry want to cough. Soft jazz notes floated towards him from the jazz band playing on the far side of the room.

Flappers littered the dancefloor and the bar of the speakeasy, their tinkling laughter a sweet sound in the night. Men gathered at tables, cigars in their mouths and scotches in their hands. Jackets were thrown carelessly over the backs of chairs and purses were left unattended at bar stools.

All previous discretions were abandoned as women and men alike danced to the music.

It was a sight to see.

Harry, fairly accustomed to the atmosphere, did not stare or cough as his friend did when they entered the speakeasy. Ron, the sheltered and naive man he was, was in awe of the club. Harry couldn't really blame him, he'd gaped the first time he'd seen a speakeasy, too.

"Welcome to Hogsmeade," he told Ron over the band and laughter, a smirk on his lips.

He couldn't help himself, Ron's reaction was just too amusing.

Harry met Ron a month previously through Fred and George Weasley. The twins were bootleggers like Harry's godfather had been before he made a deal with the wrong person and ended up face-down in the Hudson River. Harry had taken over the business, quite successfully, and found the Weasley name in Sirius' old ledger book.

Harry had contacted the twins, and things took off from there. Fred and George owned a rather small speakeasy tucked behind a diner called "Hogsmeade." It was a rather risky move for Harry to work with them, because they tended to make more daring moves than naming their establishments after an alcoholic beverage, but he found that it was worth it.

The twins were definitely made for the life of crime they led. They were _very_ good at what they did.

Harry let Ron stare some more as he looked to the back of the room where he knew the hidden door was. It was hidden for a reason—only those who had been given specific directions to it could've entered—and only working closely with the twins had given him the privilege of knowing about the back room.

Fred and George were clever bastards, that was for sure. Harry had been so surprised to meet Ron, because the man was the polar opposite of his brothers.

Ron was tentative and shy. If Harry had to guess—not that he really needed to—he would've said that Ron was raised in a sheltered household. After meeting Molly Weasley, Harry had a feeling that she was the type of mother to keep a tight leash on her children.

Clearly, it hadn't worked out as much as she'd had liked, because Fred and George were technically criminals and Ginevra was practically the poster-child of flapper life, but it had clearly changed Ron.

Best friends: Harry, twenty-one, bootlegger, blunt and sarcastic; Ron, twenty-seven, unemployed, nervous and anxious.

It was an odd friendship, indeed, but not one Harry would trade for anything.

Ron drew Harry out of his thoughts with a nudge.

"We gonna stand here all night?" he asked, fidgeting with the hems of his sleeves.

Harry wasn't sure if Ron was nervous or just impatient.

 _It's probably both,_ he reasoned in amusement.

"Yeah, come on," Harry said.

He started towards the far end of the room, where the hidden door was, staying near the wall so he could avoid getting in the way of the dancers. Ron followed him like a lost puppy.

Harry pursed his lips at the stench of sweat, alcohol, and cigarettes. It was an unpleasant smell, and something that nearly always kept Harry home on Friday nights instead of clubbing. But Harry wasn't there for the dancing, not today.

He pushed aside the curtain and the glossy wooden door behind it, letting Ron pass through first. Harry made sure that the curtain fell back into place before he closed the hidden door behind him, locking it as he went.

The backroom was a spacious, circular area, a bar in the center of it. The chairs were orientated towards a small stage, side-tables beside every pair of seats. The lighting was dim, only enough to see by. Ron and Harry's footsteps were muffled on the thick red, clean carpet.

Fred and George kept their floors clean with a passion, something that drew a lot of high-paying customers to their shows.

There was a band behind the curtains of the stage. Harry knew because he was the one that hired them. The backroom took a large chunk out of his paycheck, but he couldn't regret it.

Ron went to get a scotch from the barista, a woman by the name of Hermione. Harry didn't drink alcohol, ironically enough, so he went for one of the only pairs of seats that weren't taken.

He had seen what alcohol could do to someone, and hangovers weren't the risks that came with being drunk.

Harry pulled out a cigarette and crossed his legs, sighing. A woman sat next to him, taking Ron's seat. Harry glanced at her before rolling his eyes and lighting his cigarette.

"It's you again," he said.

The woman—Narcissa Malfoy, as she told him—was around thirty-six years old. She had blonde hair pinned up in a cloche hat that she had been wearing every time Harry saw her. She frequented Hogsmeade for her daughter, one of the performers.

"Yes, it's me again," she said lightly, sipping at the gin and tonic in her gloved hand.

Her red lips curved into a slight smile, and Harry found himself chuckling and shaking his head.

Turning his head slightly to see where Ron got off to, he saw his redheaded friend in an intense argument with Hermione.

Harry raised his eyebrow and snorted before returning his attention to the stage.

 _Only Ron would be able to get sweet, level-headed Hermione in an argument_ , he thought.

The lights went down even lower still, and all thoughts of Ron and Hermione went out the window. _This_ was why Harry was there.

The band started up and the spotlight lit up on the stage. The silhouette of a woman appeared, her arms braced on either side of her on the archway behind the curtain, her leg out by her side through a slit in her dress, figure snug in the tight fabric.

Her voice came next, husky and deep for a woman's in a way that sent shivers down Harry's spine.

" _You had plenty money, 1922_ ," she sang.

The curtains opened, revealing her sparkling teal dress and pale shoulders. Her short blonde hair gleamed in the light. She turned, leaning back against the arch, a gloved hand pressed against her generous bosom.

" _You let other women make a fool of you_."

Harry leaned forward in his seat, all his attention focused on the singer.

She pushed herself off the wall and strode to the edge of the stage, hands on her hips all the while, head held high. Her skin was pale, oh-so touchable, her slightly parted lips carefully painted pink.

" _Why don't you do right, like some other men do_?"

Harry saw Narcissa laughing quietly in the corner of his eye, her hand covering her mouth. He shook his head and focused on the blonde again. Narcissa only confused him, honestly.

" _Get out of here, get me some money too,"_ the singer continued.

She bit her lip and stepped down off the stage, drawing up the hem of her dress slightly so she wouldn't trip, revealing more of her mile-long legs. Harry gulped.

She walked slowly through the aisles, running her hands through men's hair and over their lips as she went. As she neared Harry, he could see her cold gray eyes contradicting her warm voice.

Something in Harry snapped into place, and he blinked. She probably didn't enjoy her line of work. He couldn't be upset, he wouldn't enjoy it either, but he suddenly didn't feel so attracted to her. It felt. . . wrong.

He wasn't comfortable with that train of thought, knowing that she wasn't exactly excited to be singing for a bunch of men who were clearly not following Harry's thought process.

He eased back into his chair and followed her with his eyes, not as interested as he had been earlier. He glanced at Narcissa and saw her approving gaze. He remembered the she had a daughter in the speakeasy and he realized that the singer must've been Narcissa's child.

Well, at least he did _something_ right.

The performance closed on a note that gave Harry goosebumps. Narcissa had a smirk on her face as she applauded her daughter, looking thoroughly amused.

Harry clapped politely. The rest of the audience was practically wild in their enthusiasm, startling Harry.

He looked around for Ron, expecting to see him clapping just as fervently as everyone else, but he was still somehow caught up in the conversation with Hermione. Harry rolled his eyes.

The singer disappeared behind the curtains, and Narcissa stood as she used the backstage door to visit her daughter.

Harry felt guilt swirl in his stomach. How much was the woman—Devon, if he remembered correctly from a conversation with Fred and George—getting paid? Did she get all of the money she earned?

Harry wasn't sure.

The shame and the disgust drove him to the backstage door where Narcissa disappeared to. He was going to give Devon a raise or possibly a different job if she wanted it.

The band started up another song and the crowd favorite, Lavender Brown, started singing. The sound of her clear voice faded into the background as Harry went further backstage to the changing rooms.

He looked for Devon's name among the plaques outside each door, and went all the way to the end of the hall to find it.

He heard laughter from inside Devon's room and was about to knock when the door opened, leaving him face-to-face with Devon. Well, who Harry _thought_ was Devon.

It was odd because normally she had make-up, and a dress, and. . . a bosom.

She sort of lacked those right now.

"Oops," Devon said in a very _manly_ voice.

Devon, dressed in slacks and suspenders, blond hair slicked back, gray eyes wide in surprise. She was a _he_.

"I. . . did not expect that," Harry said honestly, without really thinking.

"Close the door, will you, Draco? God forbid Harry see your brassier," Narcissa drawled from her place on top of the vanity in the changing room, folding the teal dress neatly.

Harry blinked.

Devon—Draco, apparently—flushed pink and slammed the door in Harry's face. Narcissa's ringing laughter and a noise that sounded like someone banging their head on a wall floated through the closed door.

Harry debated leaving, but he couldn't bring himself to move his feet. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his ear against the door. He absently thought that this probably looked all wrong, but he was too curious for his own good.

"Dear, you look so distressed," came Narcissa's muffled voice.

"No, why would I be?" Draco asked sarcastically.

"You don't have to be worried."

"Why not? Someone found out about me, mother!" Draco practically screeched.

"Fred and George already knew," Narcissa said softly.

Harry frowned slightly. The twins had known and didn't tell him?

"Yes, but they wouldn't tell anyone because I'm one of their best performers."

"Harry isn't the type to call people out," Narcissa said.

"Mother, it isn't just that," Draco said, so quietly that Harry strained to hear it.

"Oh, your pride will be fine. Now stop moping, we still haven't quite finished getting your makeup off," Narcissa said.

Harry could practically _hear_ her rolling her eyes. Draco sighed.

"Fine," he relented.

Harry raised his hand and rapped lightly on the door. He at least wanted to see Draco again. Considering that the man had managed to look and sound like a woman, the performance was even more impressive.

Narcissa opened the door this time, looking like she was trying very hard to fight a smirk off her face. Harry blushed. He felt liked Narcissa could see through him.

"Um, Narcissa, hi," Harry said.

His face felt like it was on fire at this point. It was the most awkward situation Harry had ever been in.

"Hello, Harry. Draco is still here if that's who you're looking for," Narcissa said.

She winked knowingly, and Harry choked a little.

"Uh, yes, I'm looking for him," he said, stumbling slightly on the words.

It was weird to think of Devon as _Draco_.

Narcissa stepped back into the changing room and motioned for Harry to follow her. He did, and she quietly slipped from the room, leaving Harry and Draco standing there and looking anywhere except each other.

Harry cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

"I really liked your perfomance," he said, and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Most people do," Draco commented.

Harry shifted on his feet.

"I mean. . . it's even more impressive, considering you're not actually a woman," Harry blurted.

Draco looked at him, eyebrow raised, a slightly amused expression on his face.

"Do I need to prove it to you, hun?" Draco asked flirtatiously.

"Oh wow, um, I-I'm okay," Harry stuttered.

Draco threw his head back and laughed, a deep sound that was so unlike Devon's voice had been.

"Here, I'll tell you what," Draco said, still smiling.

He grabbed a piece of paper from the vanity and a pen, writing something down quickly before he straightened back up and handed it to Harry.

"This is my telephone number," he said, looking down at Harry with striking gray eyes that Harry thought could see into his soul, much like Narcissa's, but not quite the same.

With Draco, he _wanted_ him to see inside of his soul. Narcissa was just intruding.

When Harry actually realized what Draco was saying, he blushed even harder and his heart sped up. His hand reached up on its accord and grabbed the piece of paper from Draco. Their fingertips brushed, and time seemed to freeze.

"Call me sometime," Draco said.

"Sure," Harry breathed, wide-eyed.

Draco laughed and put his hand on Harry's chest, pushing him backward and out of the dressing room. Harry's feet moved without him realizing it, which was probably a good thing because his mind went blank when Draco touched him.

"Goodnight," Draco said before he closed the door in Harry's face.

Harry blinked and looked down at Draco's telephone number, heart racing.

"Goodnight," he replied quietly.

Then he was just there. Harry, only a mediocre bootlegger, standing in the dark of the backstage of the club, holding the number of the most interesting guy Harry'd ever met that he somehow had a chance with.


End file.
